


The Great Death

by Ramzes



Series: Targaryens: Times of Glory [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The short and terrifying story of the Great Spring Sickness that changed the history of Westeros forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So It Starts

In the beginning, no one paid attention. Here and there, silent sisters were suddenly called to take care of the remains someone who had been unexpectedly summoned by the Stranger after he had been hit by the sun or eaten something that didn't agree with him and then made the situation worse by drinking cold water. But soon, it turned out that the disease was contagious. Because silent sisters were called to work on several people by the same house at the same day. And they often died themselves. One barely had the time to feel unwell when a funeral came in order.

Maesters didn't know what to think. No one had ever encountered such an illness. No one knew how to counteract it. And it seemed to be spreading like hot wind. _With_ the wind that blew. With the air people breathed.

"I've read about similar plagues happening when I was in the Citadel," Grand Maester Netus said at the meeting when he informed the Small Council of the situation.

"How many decades ago this was?" Maekar muttered under his breath. The King heard him and gave him a warning look, although he, too, disliked the way the Grand Maester sounded – as if he wanted to convince himself that this plague was something that had already happened, that his maesters wouldn't be the first ones to confront it.

"What are you suggesting?" Maekar asked out loud now and King Daeron sighed. Trust his son to cut to the heart of things. Well, that would save them time, at least, if the Grand Maester had an answer ready.

"Nothing," the white-haired Westerner said. "It's our job to deal with the sickness. The Maesters' job. I am only bringing the matter to the Council because there are all sorts of rumours…"

"They aren't rumours."

Everyone's eyes turned to the boy who was sitting unobtrusively on a stool a few steps behind Maekar's chair. The chamber of the Council was small and bursting with candles, documents, and reports, so it was quite the feat that the boy had managed to make the member of the Council forget that he was there. He rose now, though, and the sunlight filled his purple eyes with radiance. His hair was silver and gold strands, his attire the simplest one possible.

"What do you mean, Aemon?" the King asked calmly.

The boy hesitated in his daring, for daring it was and everyone in the chamber knew it. A prince Aemon Targaryen might be but he had been sent to the Citadel to become a maester and he was now defying the highest authority of his order. For his father and grandfather who knew him better than anyone, what was more disturbing was the fact that Aemon usually avoided confrontations – he solved his problems with words, not wars. The fact that he had thrown such a challenge into the Grand Maester's face scared them more than the words themselves. It meant that Aemon truly believed the situation was far more serious than the Grand Maester would have them think. And the things Aemon believed usually turned out to be true.

"I mean that they shouldn't…" the boy started and stopped again. Everyone was watching him: his father and grandfather, Lord Hightower who was the King's Hand, Lord Rivers with his disconcerting red eye, Lord Velaryon who was Master of Ships and brother to Aemon's late mother… and the Grand Maester. "They shouldn't have done this."

"What?" the Grand Maester demanded. Having spend twenty years in service of the Realm, he wouldn't take kindly to being told off by a boy of nine, or ten, or whatever, prince or not. "What is it that we shouldn't have done?"

"Hide the truth from His Grace," Aemon said defiantly. "The plague is running wild and you have no idea how to stop it. Our maesters cannot fight it on their own. We need monetary support and help in trying to restrict any further spreading. We need people, men at arms. We need..."

The Grand Maester's face became bright red with fury, then suddenly crumpled. He was now just an old man who was trying to do his best in a situation that had never arisen before – and realizing that he was failing.

"I don't think there's ever been something exactly like this," he said softly. He was very, very weary. His long service and many successes had made him confident in his own abilities and this blow to his knowledge in his dotage was felt all more sharply because of that. "There's been diseases that spread from man to man, as well as diseases who strike extremely swiftly but never both of these combined to such devastating effects."

There was a murmur in the small chamber. The members of the Council started exchanging looks. Daeron and Maekar looked at each other, the same thoughts in both their minds: now it was the most unfortunate moment for the Grand Maester to lose his courage. They needed a strong leadership and as competent as the King was, he was no maester. Besides, Maekar was less than pleased with the fact that Netus had really hidden the truth from them, as well as himself. Daeron drank from his goblet of cold water. Maekar didn't have it in him to understand. He was merciless to any weaknesses, including his own. And after that terrible tournament last year, his temper had taken a turn for the worse. Colder. More bitter. Not exactly qualities that would help him feel sympathy for someone who had underestimated a plague that could wipe out a good deal of the people of King's Landing. Worse yet, Maekar was still young enough to have no idea what it was like to feel old and helpless when only yesterday one had been in his prime. Daeron could sympathize with Netus, for he often felt this way himself. His sympathy, though, could not change a thing. They needed an adequate Grand Maester and maybe Netus wasn't that in this crisis.

"I want an assembly of twenty experienced maesters and ten silent sisters to assess the situation," Daeron said. "I'll be expecting their opinion in a week."

The opinion, though, came only three days later when seventeen of the maesters and all silent sisters who had gone about infected houses to gather information died.

"Well, there must be _something_ we can do!" the King exclaimed and everyone looked at him in surprise, for it was a rare event for Daeron the Good to lose his temper over anything. "We cannot just sit and watch."

"To stop the disease from spreading further, we need to burn the houses in which someone died from the sickness. We need to burn their relatives' clothes and those who had entered those houses and touched the sick ones need to be held in separate buildings and guarded until it becomes clear whether they are sick or not…" an old revered maester said.

The Master of Coin looked stunned. "Do you have any idea how much will that _cost_?" he asked. "King's Landing might fill with homeless… and that's without even considering the manning of that guard you mentioned…"

"Well, what do you think about the alternative?" the Master of Whisperers said, beating Maekar to it.

* * *

Kin of the diseased hid the truth for as long as they could. They didn't call silent sisters and buried their dead at night, in secret, paying the gravediggers for their silence. This way, they kept their clothes and houses. But a few days later, they lost their lives. It became a common event for a house to lose all inhabitants in two days, in a single day, with no one to take the bodies away; the only thing alerting to what happened was the stench filling the narrow street.

"Rain," the Grand Maester said. "What we need is a good, heavy rain to wipe the disease away."

Everyone looked at the windows for the rain that did not come. It usually rained in spring. Just not this one. So people kept dying in tens. Then, they were dying in hundreds. Soon, it was in thousands.

The King issued orders so severe that they had been unknown even in the days if the Blackfyre Rebellion. Daeron the Good guaranteed death to everyone who kept silence about someone being sick or dead. Those who took items from infected houses would have their own houses burned just like those where the sickness had come.

"Maybe you should send the children to Summerhall," Lord Velaryon told Maekar one day after the meeting of the Council was over. "You see how it is here…"

"Maybe you should keep silent when you have nothing wise to say," Maekar snapped. "Or have you forgotten that the city gates are closed? No one can come or leave."

Lord Velaryon sighed and looked at the sky once again. No sign of rain coming soon. He knew, of course, that Maekar didn't really have much say in the matter, than should he send Aemon and the girls away, that would be taken as a sign that the disease was indeed so fatal as to scare the dragons in hiding and the panic would reach a new level. Besides, there were small riots every day in the streets. People demanded that their King do something, as if Daeron was a sorcerer who could just will the plague away. Should Maekar send his own children to safety while the children in King's Landing were dying in crowds, no one could say how far the resentment would come. Besides, knowing how the Prince was, he would not be surprised if Maekar actually thought that leaving them here because they had been here when the disease first broke out was _the right thing to do_. Ridiculous. Naeryn had been the gentlest soul ever born but her husband's righteousness had rubbed even her the wrong way.

Maesters, silent sisters, and gravediggers were dying in greater rates than anyone else.

"We can't leave the sick ones without care," the King said, tiredly. His sunken eyes looked at everyone around the table. "But can we really force anyone to attend them? Anyone unwilling?"

"There are enough maesters who are not afraid," the Grand Maester declared. "For a while, attending the sick won't be a problem."

Daeron nodded. "That seems reasonable," he said. "Anyone who is willing should be allowed to help. But they have to obey the safety measures we are trying to enforce…"

"Your Grace," Aemon said as soon as his grandfather fell silent. "I'd like to go out and help as well."

"But why you?" Daeron asked, stunned and scared for the boy.

"Why not?" Aemon replied. "I am to be a maester, aren't I?"

"Exactly," Maekar said. "You still aren't one, so I'll hear no more talks about going anywhere near an infected house."

"But I have to…"

"We'll discuss it later," the King interrupted them, seeing that the quarrel was inevitable. Aemon was a good boy but in his sense of what was right, he was just like his father. The Council could do without a family fight. "My lord, are you not feeling well?" he suddenly asked, looking at the Master of Ships who was draining another goblet of cold wine – his fifth, if Daeron wasn't mistaken. It was spring. It was not _this_ hot.

The man's purple eyes flashed – or had they been glowing unhealthily the entire time? "I am fine, Your Grace," he said but everyone could not help but think that Prince Aemon might have his chance to help without even leaving the Red Keep.

* * *

Velyn Velaryon, Master of Ships, was tied to a raft that was lowered in the sea from a boat and then set aflame by a few archers and their flaming arrows. For all his competence and popularity, there weren't many who came to see him off in his last journey – everyone was afraid to meet their kin and avoided their acquaintances. The people in the Red Keep kept their doors closed shut and the castle looked ominous, deserted, with only a few shadows passing its halls when they needed to.

"Rhae and Daella wanted to come," Aemon told his father as they stood, watching the flames engulfing his uncle's body.

Maekar gave him a look of dismay. "And how would you know? Did you see them? Aemon, I gave orders that they were to be isolated in their chambers. I cannot keep you inside but I won't let you…"

"The servants talk," Aemon said.

The sun was burning too hot, as it did each bloody day since the damned disease had started. Maekar looked at his son again. Was the high colour of his cheeks a flush from the swelter, or did he need to be seen by one of the surviving maesters?

"They do, I have no doubt," he said. On his orders, his daughters were attended only by one maid each but even so, the servants would find a way to talk.

When they turned to leave, Aemon suddenly stopped and looked back at the sea and the small spot that was the raft now. "Was this how Mother was buried?" he asked.

"Yes," Maekar said. For all her years as a Targaryen wife, Naeryn had been very much a Velaryon of Driftmark. Sometimes, it was easy for him to forget that the other Houses, too, had their pride.

"Lord Rivers says we should burn the bodies, not bury them," Aemon said after a while.

Maekar looked at him inquiringly. "And what do you think of that?" he asked.

The boy was in no hurry to answer. "I think he's right," he said. "The septons will be in uproar, though. But well, we are responsible for the living, first and foremost."

His father nodded. As much as it irked him, Bloodraven had the truth of it. He could only hope that when this was all over, they would have living to be responsible for.

Meanwhile, the sickness was worming its way into the heart of the Red Keep.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, the disease abated and everyone clung to hope. But it never stopped. It lost some of its strength in one quarter, only to strike another with renewed malice. In the city, the King's measures were applied with ruthlessness that no one had ever imagined Daeron Targaryen being capable of. People who had hidden the fact that their kin was sick or diseased were executed. Not like brigands – like soldiers, with swords, and that was the King's mercy for them. Houses were burned or had doors and windows walled up. The authorities started taking the sick ones to huge warehouses or other administrative building that were big enough. No one could go through the city gates in either direction.

And still the disease did not stop. People secretly took their belongings elsewhere to keep them – golden plates, treasured heirlooms, women's trousseau. The plague traveled from quarter to quarter. Families and kin died together, all at once. Mothers lost a few children in a single day; old people lost all their offspring in a week. It was truly a disaster that had ever been seen before. The buildings where the sick were carried soon overflew; the bodies were too many to bury with any kind of rites.

"We can't leave them lying there," the King said at one of the meeting of the Council. "We'll be just spreading the disease further… and faster."

No one disagreed; the Master of Coin rose and went to close the windows to block the stench which was reaching them all the way up to the top of Aegon's Hill, although their own dead were buried instantly.

"We need to… just dug them in, I suppose," Maekar said reluctantly.

That was the thought dwelling in everyone's mind but it was so horrendous that once hearing it spoken aloud, they all felt compelled to protest. "No rites? Sending them to the Stranger without even alerting him that they are coming?"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard laughed, not quite merrily. "I'd think that unless the Stranger is blind and deaf, he's already aware of so many people coming to him."

"The septons…" the King's Hand insisted.

"What?" Prince Maekar asked, well and truly surprised. "You mean that there are surviving septons who will have the time to raise objections? Well, they'd better not meddle if they know what's good for them."

A brief silence followed. And then, "It isn't just septons. People themselves won't stand for it. The faith in the Seven and the observation of rites is strong among some, especially in times of crisis."

That was something neither the King nor Maekar had thought about. But once they heard it, it made sense to them.

Not to Aemon.

"Do you really think people won't accept it, Grand Maester?" he asked, his eyes wide and disbelieving. For the last few weeks, he had become a fixture in the chamber and no one thought to question his presence. "It's for their own good, after all…"

"We are talking about the same people who, despite everything, keep moving their things around and the plague with them," his father said, angry that he hadn't been the one to think about that. "So yes, I suppose they won't accept it. We'll have to force them into it despite their fears that their kin will go straight to the seven hells and we'll anger the gods even further by neglecting the rites."

Bloodraven shook his head. "This will set them aflame. They simply won't let us do it, Your Grace."

" _Who_ isn't going to allow it?" Maekar demanded. "My father is the only one whose permissions matters here."

"Yes, while he's King of Westeros."

In the blink of an eye, Maekar had his sword drawn out. He seemed to be barely containing himself from attacking the sorcerer. "How can you doubt that my father will stay King of Westeros?" His knuckles were white against the hilt. "You dare insinuate…"

"For the Seven's sake, Maekar, do take this sword back in," Daeron said, irritated. "Or I'll have to have you restrained and I'd rather avoid it."

Maekar looked down and seemed surprised to see the sword out of the sheath.

"His Grace does have many enemies." Bloodraven was looking straight at Maekar, as if the sword was not there at all. "Until now, I didn't think you were one of them."

This was the thing that really set Maekar off. He slammed the sword back in place and headed for Bloodraven with the obvious intent to settle the matter in a different manner. The Master of Whisperers just crossed his arms over his chest, quite unimpressed.

"If the two of you are planning to make me feel guilty at watching your bruised faces in the morning," the King said icily, "you are very wrong because I don't intend to pay attention to your little fist practice."

That made them come to themselves. Maekar returned to his chair. Bloodraven sighed. "I am only saying it as it is," he said. "Those who are losing everything will turn restive and in their despair might seek revenge from the King. Every day, there are new riots in the streets. We'll have to bury the dead under the protection of guard, otherwise…" He didn't finish but everyone understood him just fine.

Servants brought cool wine and the discussion went back to the matter of how and where they were going to bury the dead.

"I don't understand," Aemon said later when he followed the King to his chambers after the end of the meeting. "Why are Father and Lord Rivers arguing constantly? It isn't as if they are on different sides…"

Daeron sliced an apple and gave it to the boy. "Because they are both men of action who hate feeling helpless," he said. "And they never got along in the best of times, let alone the worst."

That was one of the effects of the plague – that it created animosity within one's own ranks. It was a smaller effect, to be sure, but a very real one. But Aemon couldn't understand it yet – for all his makings and extraordinary wisdom, he was still a child. There were some things that came with experience.

Aemon offered his grandfather a slice of the apple and Daeron took it.

"I hear that there are some wealthy sick people pay the maesters to attend them at home, instead of sending them to the hospitals," the boy said.

Almost a third of the houses in King's Landing were now hospitals.

The King nodded. "I heard about that, too," he said. "These maesters will be punished as accomplices."

Aemon busied himself with lighting the candles in the room. "Do you think Uncle Baelor would have approved?" he asked without turning back. "He was always ready to show mercy."

The King didn't answer at once, not because he was hesitant in his reply but because very few dared mention Baelor in front of him. It was as if he had never existed, that there had never been a Prince of Dragonstone, a Hand of the King named Baelor. He was surprised at how easily he faced this sudden mentioning. He hadn't realized how desperately he had needed to hear someone admitting that Baelor had lived. "Yes," he said. "I think your uncle would have approved. He knew that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good. He showed mercy, yes, but he never did it when it would have doomed countless others."

Aemon considered this, his forehead creased. The hardness of his father vied with the tender heart of his mother. Daeron watched the conflict with interest and sympathy.

Finally, Aemon grew tired of trying to decide which was right. He sat down and looked at the King. "Your Grace?" he asked, suddenly uncertain once again.

Daeron closed his eyes, weary of alleviating everyone's uncertainties. Really, the boy might have gone to pester his father instead. Not really, though: right now, Maekar had gone in the street again. There were rumours about problems with the Golden Cloaks, of all things…

"You never seem to blame my father. For what happened to Uncle Baelor…"

Gods, but the boy was bold. No one had ever dared speak to Daeron's face about the tragedy that had befallen them all of a sudden. This was a different kind of courage, a different kind of dragon but a dragon no less. With a jolt that sent him sitting a little bit straighter, the King recognized himself. Daeron, as he had been fifty years ago…

"And what would blaming him change?" he asked. "What would you have me do? He's my son as well. I already lost one. No matter what we do, nothing can bring Baelor back. It was a mishap, I have no doubt." He paused. "He won't hear a word of accusation from me. He'll hear enough of those from others. Till his dying day."

Which might be closer than expected. Daeron shuddered.

* * *

The city was agitated. Children screamed at night, scared by the horrifying tales they heard during the day. No one dared leave their houses or even look through the door, except for going to the septs to pray and promise all they had in exchange for being spared. There were not enough graves and gravediggers had no time to bury each body separately, so they threw them in shared ditches. But there weren't enough gravediggers either – those who didn't die ran away. Even the tripled wage could not move them. So, the King's Hand started emptying the dungeons, promising murderers and brigands pardon if they undertook the dangerous task.

Despite the general air of fear, there were always those who preached and encouraged discontent. Wherever someone from the Red Keep moved through the city on their own, they considered themselves lucky if they escaped with their skins intact.

"Open the gates!" a young disheveled woman cried and threw herself against the guards who closed their ranks around Maekar's horse.

He had long ago given up on arguing and explaining why the gates should stay closed. And yet there were always those who crowded him and shouted for justice and mercy from the King, as if this blasted sickness was something arranged by the people on the Red Keep specifically for tormenting them. He felt horror each time he glimpsed the remains of burned out houses, yet he was furious at those who unknowingly helped spreading the disease by not observing the new rules. Pity and anger, horror and revulsion – he didn't know which ones were stronger.

Something hit him in the arm – because he refused to be cowered into going out fully armoured. Some shards of glass. He removed those of them he could see and looked straight forward, unwilling to confront the sight of those who held their children up to him and started howling like animals in their despair. _Is this how you think to soften my heart?_ he raged inwardly. _Have you really forgotten that beside your children, my own children are in this cursed city!_

''What happened?" Daeron asked as soon as Maekar entered to give his report. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing," Maekar said and looked at his arm. Now he saw a shard of glass that he hadn't noticed before. "Just a shard of glass."

The King came near and removed it. "You must see a maester," he said.

"What for?" Maekar asked, surprised. "Oh this. It's nothing."

"It isn't. A maester should clean the wound and dress it. You were always quite careless about these things but I insist. I've seen how such tiny pieces can poison one's blood. I've seen people dying…" He broke off and stared at Maekar at a loss of words.

Because Maekar was laughing. He was laughing so hard that he couldn't quite manage a word. "Father, you can't…" he said and kept laughing.

"It isn't funny," the King spat.

"Father, if I die, it'll be from the plague, not a shard of glass." Maekar had regained control over his voice but not his laughter. "The Seven help me, this plague might just pass me over!"

Daeron kept staring at him for a while and then started laughing himself. "A shard of glass. I am sorry, I didn't mean to sound… A shard of glass. Gods, a tiny piece of glass…"

"It isn't funny at all," Maekar said, now shaking with laughter. "Why can't I stop?"

"Because you're at the end of your endurance," Daeron explained helpfully. Maekar knew his father was right and somehow, that only made it funnier. By the look of him, Daeron was feeling the same.

Their laughter was suddenly interrupted by a pale-faced servant who rushed in to tell them that Prince Valarr was at his deathbed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Bloody cravens," Maekar spat. They had just received the last reports about the lords who had left the city in suspicious hurry shortly before the Small Council was informed that there was a problem. They had fled the plague and of course, carried it to their own seats. "I wish we could persecute them as the criminals they are."

He knew they couldn't do it, of course…

Rhaegel stood up; for a moment, everyone was afraid that he'd start dancing around in a bout of madness again. But he only went to the window and stared at Visenya's Hill. "It's lit so brightly," he said with childlike wonder, soon replaced by gloom when he remembered why there were so many torches and people climbing up the hill. The Great Sept of Baelor was now opened day and night for anyone who wanted to pray there and now all septs in King's Landing were filled with people who prayed for Prince Valarr's recovery. Doom had entered the King's own home. Who could hope that theirs would be spared? Nothing helped; none of their efforts to find a cure worked. They could only try to contain the sickness and hope that sooner or later, it would grow tired of killing.

The King rose and approached the window; for a moment, his eyes wandered over the hill. "I don't think I ever saw it this lit up," he said. "You're right, Rhaegel." He was trying to keep up a cheerful tone but it was so very hard. "Except for the night before I wed Myriah. Everyone had come in advance to claim a better place to look at us." A brief smile crossed his lips. His eyes were turned to something long gone, long forgotten. "There were all kinds of rumours about her. I think some expected to see a girl of ebony. I could swear that there were those who counted her fingers, only I don't know whether she was supposed to have four or six."

Aemon laughed. They were all trying to avoid the topic that burned in all their minds. No. Valarr was young. He would recover. Death wouldn't dare take him so soon after his father. If it did, if it defeated their family once, who could say where it would stop?

"I remember she did something like that to you once," Matarys said.

Aemon looked surprised. "She did?"

"Oh yes." The older boy's hair was brown and shiny, his colour so good. It was horrifying to think that all this might change in two days. "Not actually counting your fingers, of course," he went on. "But she was looking at you and she looked very perplexed. How old you were… you hadn't seen two namedays, for sure. She was very amazed that you loved to be clean, said 'thanks' without prompting, and shared your toys easily."

For once, Aemon looked utterly confused. Daeron returned at the table and looked at them, smiling once again. "We were both quite stunned," he said. "It was so bizarre to us. I know for sure none of _our_ children were like this. Even Rhaegel."

"Why, thanks for reminding us," Aelinor muttered and everyone laughed, thankful for the distraction.

Suddenly, the door opened. Everyone looked up with a sinking heart and relaxed when they saw it was not a maester announcing Valarr's death. But a minute after, the fear returned: the maid approached, her head low, her eyes full of fear. The woman who alone attended Daella. Since the beginning of the plague, the two girls had been kept in their chambers. They didn't sup with the family. Maekar didn't even dare take a peek at their beds at night because he was in constant contact with sick people.

"Your Grace," the young woman said, very pale. "The Princess has trouble breathing and she's quite warm…"

Someone gasped from behind.

Now every caution was gone. The moment Maekar stepped in his daughter's chamber, he realized that he was staring at another face of the plague – a face of very white skin, dark hair and indigo eyes swimming in shadows. The white was almost engulfed by red veins, the irises were dazed. Maekar immediately realized that Daella did not recognize him. He stepped in but Aerys caught him by the hand. He was not strong enough to stop him, of course, but the fact that he did something so untypical for him made Maekar pause.

"You won't help her, Maekar, you'll only have that damned plague claim you as well!"

Maekar silently pushed him away.

Daella was just as hot to the touch as he feared. Her face turned redder with any passing minute. A maester ran in, looking just as terrified as any of them.

Rhaegel made a step towards the bed. "May I take her to my chambers?" he asked calmly. "We can be sick together."

Usually, Maekar was patient with Rhaegel – there was something in his brother's gentle nature that kept even his volatile temper in check, something that no one else had ever achieved, even the King. Not today, though. "Stop talking nonsense," he barked. "Why would you…" And he paused.

For a moment, Daeron closed his eyes. Then, he asked, "When?"

"When I noticed the swelling under my armpit?" Rhaegel asked. "About an hour ago."

His voice sounded as softly as ever, there was but the faintest flush on his cheeks. It was as if even the plague did not dare take his gentleness away.

"Well?" Rhaegel asked. "May I?"

It took everyone a minute to realize that he was asking about taking Daella. Maekar nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course."

Why not? The harm had already been done. This sickness was something they could not fight. Daella had been so isolated and it had still found her.

Rhaegel smiled. "Thank you," he said. ''We'll feel each other in the next room. And it will be easier for the maesters to tend to us."

Maekar reached down to take the girl when Rhaegel's next words made him freeze. "Don't worry," his brother said lightly. "We'll make it through. The Seven keep children and madmen under their protection."

Aelinor's eyes went wide. Daeron only sighed. All those years when they had been worrying about Rhaegel's unstable state of mind, they had been comforted by the fact that he was oblivious to it. His being aware of it made it all more sad. He was not stupid. Just mad. And he knew it and had never showed resentment.

A day later five of the towers of the Great Sept of Baelor started ringing slowly and sadly, with long, mournful rings.

They announced the death of the heir of the Iron Throne.

The entire city, with everyone who was healthy and everyone who was getting better came out on the streets to watch the funeral pyre at the top of Aegon's Hill. Even now, though, practicality won out: after Valarr went to the flames, the other dead from the Red Keep were thrown in the fire. Because the supply of kindling wood was getting dangerously low.

* * *

About a week later, Princess Daella returned to her chambers, so thin that even the slightest breeze could push her this way and that. Her lovely black hair had been cut short, her face gaunt, her eyes sunken in their sockets but she was alive and that news flew all around King's Landing, bringing a little hope that the plague could be defeated, after all. If the Princess had made it, their children might also survive. Hope was not lost. Not entirely.

Of course, there were all sorts of rumours. One that made Maekar especially livid and had even King Daeron grinding his teeth was the supposition that Daella had, in fact, died and there was another girl put in her place to placate those who spoke of riots and rebellions, and forcing the city gates open, to delude them into thinking that they could still be saved.

"Maybe if we show the Princess around the city…" the Hand of the King suggested. "That would calm spirits down. Don't you think it's worth trying, Your Grace?"

"No, I don't," Maekar answered coolly and the King did not override him. Daella was indeed too weak.

While Daella and Rhaegel were making their slow and painful recovery, Matarys went from fine to dead in less than a day.

Next came Aerys who woke up healthy about a week later and was brought to his bed before noon.

The city's unrest grew. With Valarr and Matarys'deaths, Prince Aerys was the only one who stood between the people of Westeros and Rhaegel's madness. Aerys certainly had never been this popular and prayed for as he was now when everyone looked up with fear to the towers of the Red Keep and strained to hear the bells ringing.

"What's going on in the city?" Aelinor asked when Maekar entered Aerys' bedchamber, having just washed and changed. They had stopped trying to isolate everyone in their chambers because it simply didn't work. Still, the sick were kept apart and Aerys should have been attended by maesters and Aelinor should not have been here at all. Still, she was and they weren't.

"The usual," Maekar said and looked around. "Where is everyone?"

"I sent them away," Aelinor said. "I think I can attend him on my own and they will be more useful elsewhere."

Maekar nodded and went to Aerys' bedside. His brother was in that dazed state that had become sickeningly familiar to Maekar, the state when the sick swayed between fully realizing what was going on and having no idea who they were. His face was bright red and bloated, his eyes purple glass. Maekar pulled the cover from around Aerys and his brother immediately tried to cling to it without coming fully to himself.

"What you're doing," Aelinor spoke from the opposite side of the bed, "goes against the counsel of all maesters. They say we should keep him warm."

"It's a good thing, I say," Maekar said. "Going against their council, I mean. From what I've seen this far, those who don't die from the plague die from the treatment. He's so hot, it's madness to keep him warmer yet."

"Dying from either the plague or the treatment," Aelinor said and laughed briefly. "I'm sorry," she said when she saw Maekar's expression. "It just… makes me laugh, for some reason."

She laughed again, hysterically, and couldn't stop for a long time.

"He won't die from either," Maekar said with more certainty than he felt. "Daella didn't die. Rhaegel didn't. Aerys won't either."

"I want so much to believe you…" Aelinor murmured.

"Then do so. Have I ever lied to you?"

A faint smile curled her lips even as she stared at Aerys in his delirium. "About a hundred of times. No, hundreds."

"Fine," Maekar acknowledged. "But not today. You'll see."

Neither of them moved. Their eyes locked and between them, Aerys started breathing even more heavily without waking up. For an instant, they were transported back to a time when nothing stood between them, when life hadn't changed them for the worse. They were still able to bring out the best of each other – when they weren't fighting, or struggling with the bitterness and disappointment their blood had provided them with. Their blood – and the other one. Those moments became rarer with each passing year.

And in that moment, their thoughts collided and met. The realization hit them like a hammer. Everything they longed for, everything they had lost could be theirs.

They only needed to… do nothing.

Nothing, and their problems would be solved. Nothing, and the obstacle would be removed. The damned prophecy that they knew by heart, the prophecy that, most likely, was not even true, had died along with Naeryn. _The Prince Who Was Promised will be born of their line_ , the maesters had told King Daeron all those years ago and Maekar had done what was needed of him. Aelinor had tried to do the same, yet Aerys had consigned her to a bizarre half-life that she was so very tired of.

Nothing. All they needed to do was nothing, and who could step ahead and blame them? People died from the plague every minute of any day. Aerys had been tended to by his own servants as well as maesters and they had all seen how poorly he was doing. Aelinor's concern about him had been obvious. There would be rumours, no doubt, but who could blame them?

All that lasted for no longer than a few moments. It was stunning how many justifications could pass through one's mind for such a short time and yet leave room for resolve and poise for acting.

Then, in the same moment, as if they were free of a spell suddenly broken, they started moving. Maekar started undressing Aerys further. Aelinor went to open the windows and went pale as a heart-wrenching scream came in. Maekar startled and even Aerys, as dazed as he was, stirred and asked, "What's going on?"

Looking at the woman who came running into the courtyard, clutching her dead child to her, Aelinor was suddenly grateful that her womb had stayed empty.


	4. Chapter 4

Rhae's room was empty, her bed still unmade. It was past midnight and on the light of the torch he carried the King saw that she had obviously lain in the bed before getting out. The bedchamber was dimly lit by a few candelabra and Daeron sighed, shaking his head. His granddaughter had been accustomed to sleeping in darkness long ago but now, like all children in King's Landing, she was scared of what she heard when she was awake, so she had gone back to the protection of light in her sleep. The door to the adjoining bedchamber was slightly ajar but Daeron didn't go in. Instead, he went back to the hallway and opened the main door. And sure, there they were, the candles here burning low but casting soft glow over the sleeping forms of the two girls in the bed. Rhae's silvery locks blended with Daella's newly cut dark hair.

For a while, Daeron stood on the threshold. Quarantine was of no use now and still he couldn't quite bring himself to entering. For a while, he just stared at the girls, trying to imagine what they would be like when they grew up. He was more worried about Daella – she had inherited her mother's kindness, the kindness that consumed her to an extent that didn't leave room for some healthy self-preservation. He still remembered the first years after Maekar wed Naeryne, his fear that this overwhelming kindness would bring out his son's worst instincts that Naeryne would not even try to protect herself from, thus making Maekar even angrier and lashing out at her… Fortunately, that hadn't happened but who was to say that Daella would have the same luck with her own husband? Being too good was dangerous. He had no such qualms about Rhae. He just hoped their lives would turn out happier than their parents'.

He shook his head. He was getting sentimental. Happiness had never been his priority. Not for himself. Not for his own children when, long ago, he had shaped their paths. _Happiness? It's a tale for children! We're talking about responsibilities here._ Whom exactly had he said that to? Did it matter? At one moment or another, he had made that painfully clear to all of them.

But he was old now. His journey was over. Surely he was entitled to some sentiment now?

He didn't know how long he had stayed like this. The girls did not stir. He wanted to go in, to run a hand over their heads but he did not dare.

Four doors away, Aemon stood at the window, looking at the city absently. Daeron stepped at the other end of the window and stared down. Immediately, he felt the shudder that never left him nowadays when he looked at King's Landing at night. In all his years, he had never seen his city so dark. Thousands of houses had been burnt down and only the Seven knew how many they would have to burn the next days; those who were intact huddled against the burned earth, their inhabitants too scared to even light a candle, as if that would show the sickness where they lived. Only the septs were brightly lit, as well as the tiny silhouettes scrambling in and out of them. Praying to the Stranger, begging for his mercy to them and their loved ones who had died… Daeron also prayed, for this nightmare to end. _Yes, because the Stranger will_ so _listen to you_ , Myriah would have snapped in helpless anger born by fear. _This deafened dotard!_ In the middle of this crisis, he missed her more than ever since those first weeks after her death, the weeks of bleak disbelief that he had lost his companion in life since he was sixteen.

Aemon turned to look at his grandfather and his eyes immediately turned somber. He went all around the city, helping maesters care for hundreds of sick; maybe he saw some sign – too bright eyes, too high colour, a little more perspiration than what should have been – for the end that Daeron had started feeling edging closer a few hours ago?

"I am sorry," Daeron suddenly said. When he had packed off his grandson for the Citadel, he had never imagined that it included sending him in the midst of a plague with severity never known in Westeros.

"I am not," Aemon replied. Had he understood what the King meant? Or had he taken his words to mean something entirely else altogether? Either way, his reply felt reassuring to Daeron who was too tired for dealing with anything remotely unpleasant already, so he didn't delve further.

Aemon brought him a goblet of cold water. Daeron drank thirstily. "You'll take care of your father, won't you?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "I'll try," he said, looking unsurprised at this change of topic. "I am not very good at it, though."

Daeron stared down at the torches at the walls of the Red Keep. "It's okay," he said. "I… I am not very good at it either. And the Seven know how bad _he_ is at being taken care of."

Aemon laughed. His grandfather's dry wit always pleased him. "I'll miss you," he said simply, bringing a little flame of warmth to Daeron's heart, for he knew that was true.

The Red Keep was silent. Half the court was dead and the other half was hiding in their chambers. Only a handful of servants hurried up and down, bowing to the King when he passed. The silence was so profound that the night breeze carried the whinnying of a horse from the stables.

Rhaegel was fast asleep. Aerys was so engrossed in a book that he didn't hear the door opening and Daeron didn't disturb him, although his heart sank once again. Westeros needed a strong, engaged King and Aerys wasn't it. But no one could change a man's nature.

In the hallway between the different wings he encountered Brynden Rivers and immediately saw how exhausted he was. Indeed, it was a miracle that he wasn't sleeping as he walked. The smell of smoke preceded him as always these days. Once again, he had been busy overseeing the burning of the bodies in the dragon pit.

At seeing Daeron, he started bowing. The King stopped him with a gesture. "Go to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, there will be a new conflict, I fear." A few hours ago, he had made the decision to take away some of the Faith's resources to spend for maesters and feeding the sick ones. He didn't expect the Great Septon to take kindly to that. He had discussed it with Maekar but Brynden was still unaware, being away from the Red Keep.

Bloodraven shook his head. Weariness and lack of sleep had turned his eye entirely red. "No, I have to check…"

"Tomorrow," Daeron said firmly. "You'll check it tomorrow. Now go to your chambers, eat something and have a decent sleep, for once. That's an order."

He didn't actually expect that Brynden would follow it but it wouldn't hurt to try. If he kept going like this, he'd just fall down in the middle of one of his activities, those days.

To his surprise, there was still light in Maekar's solar. As he came near, he could make out two voices and felt profound relief that they sounded healthy, saying… He strained his ears. Yes, they were actually saying…

"Lying lion," Aelinor's voice came.

"Fishy fish," Maekar replied.

"Snoring sun."

"Grinning gryphon," he went on.

"Eager eagle," she countered.

The King shook his head and smiled a little, suddenly realizing what he was hearing. Once, when his children were little, it was their way to amuse themselves while learning their heraldry. Their tutors were outraged at this blatant disrespect to the various Houses. Daeron himself was not thrilled, although it had more to do with fear that they would blurt something like this in the worst possible moment. Myriah laughed his fears away. Of course, it was she who spanked the children when she caught them throwing balls of bread at the lords headed for the Great Hall… _She never felt any remorse over that,_ Daeron thought. He had spanked them, too, but only rarely and he always regretted it later. Not Myriah. She never wrapped her head around the conception that it was indecent for royal couples to administer bodily punishments to their children in person – it was the tutors' job.

"Drooling dragon."

That made Daeron chuckle. They looked up and Maekar gestured for him to enter while Aelinor who had said the last bit blushed. "Did you mean me?" the King asked good-naturedly, still at the door, and she shook her head. "Well, I am very relieved."

She rose to curtsy; with sinking heart Daeron realized that the hobble that had become part of her life was clearly pronounced now that she was tired. With age, her condition worsened. One day, the limp might start impeding her movements very seriously, the maesters had said fifteen years ago. He was glad that he wouldn't be there to watch her in pain.

Maekar didn't even bother to rise and bow and that set the King for alarm. It was a clear sign that like Brynden, Maekar was near the end of his stamina. As angry as both would be at this comparison, those two did have something in common – no meager amount of mulishness.

"I'll leave you do with your time whatever you want," Daeron said. "But at sunrise, I want you at the Council chamber."

"I'll be there," Maekar snapped, offended by the insinuation that it might be otherwise. Daeron pitied the poor servant who would have to rouse him in the morning. Maekar obviously needed at least a week of good sleep.

"Father?" Aelinor said. "Is something the matter?"

He realized that they were both staring at him with the same concern he had stared at them only a few moments ago. Obviously, they couldn't see that he was not well and he was glad for it. He didn't want to spoil their last meeting with the feeling of doom. He smiled. "Other than insomnia? No."

"Thank the Seven," she murmured.

He turned to go. Then, he turned back and looked at them. "Dining direwolves," he said and left. Behind him, they chuckled.

"May I sleep here?" he heard Aelinor asking as he was fighting his dizziness in the hallway, and he frowned. Maekar's response, though, set his mind at rest.

"You can. But I'm warning you, if you start snoring, you're going back to your chambers."

She laughed and Daeron felt stupid for immediately suspecting that she wanted to renew what had once existed between her and Maekar. They were just as exhausted and disheartened as anyone in the city and were just seeking support in each other. That was what kept them awake at this hour when the entire world was sleeping.

"As if you'd hear me if I did," Aelinor said. Then, her voice came small, shaking. "I'm afraid of the plague, Maekar."

"Everyone is, Aelinor. If I stay idle for a day, I'll probably start screaming in terror."

Now the hallway was no longer spinning in front of Daeron but he still did not move. He couldn't, had he wanted to. That was the first time he heard Maekar admitting any fear in… what, thirty years?

Aelinor laughed weakly. "I'd like to see that!"

 _No, you wouldn't_ , the King thought. It was strange how clear things were to him now, when the end was near. He had always thought that it was Aelinor who clung to Maekar because of the disappointment her life with Aerys had turned out to be. But in fact, it was Maekar who needed her more than she needed him because as neglected and disillusioned as she was, she was able not to withdraw into herself and that prevented her from turning bitter. Maekar had no such outlet. He was as implacable to himself as he was to others. He needed tenderness, yet he never accepted it. Except when it came from Aelinor. She was the only one he let near but his temper would never let him seek her out. She knew that and didn't turn it into a game of pride.

"Maekar?" she said again. "When it's over, we'll go riding into the Kingswood, for weeks. The city gates will be open…"

"There will be many happy and sad people," Maekar said, very wearily. "Wounds will heal over… We'll have the houses rebuilt. We'll forget about the sickness…"

Daeron fervently wished that they would. But he did not believe it. _Still, it'll be good if they do_ , he thought as he was negotiating the way to his apartment that was suddenly so, so very long for his legs and eyes.

Till noon everyone in King's Landing knew that the King, too, had been infected with the dreaded sickness.

And the madness spread.

People were scared to meet their kin, avoided their friends. Kept to their homes, plugging every crevice and bolted every window, as if they were afraid that the plague might enter. Others went out in the streets and started screaming to be let out of the city, to be saved while they were still alive and healthy. A crowd attacked the Golden Cloaks in a barren attempt to seize control of the gates. A contingent of guards rode quickly down Aegon's Hill to stifle the riot. The septs were filled of people who prayed for Daeron's recovery, yet no one believed that it would take place. The few ones who had recovered had been young and strong. Daeron was neither.

At dusk, all the bells of the Great Sept started ringing.

And the King's body was not yet fully burnt on the pyre when sudden coldness made nobles and smallfolk alike look up.

It was the long expected rain that once fallen would not stop for days, the rain that would clean the city from the plague, the rain that meant recovery, life, hope. The rain that had only waited for the sickness to claim its most important victim.

* * *


End file.
